


Abasement

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Anal Sex, As in somebody's wrists are tied lol, Because of course he does, Corkscrew cock, Dubious Consent, Fight or Flight, Gags, Humiliation, Kink Discovery, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Rukh, Power Play, Scent Kink, Thrawn manipulates people into humiliating him and using him as a sex toy, Top Pellaeon, Top Rukh, Watersports, Xenophilia, bottom Thrawn, fear wetting, this is ao3 what did you expect, you didn't come here to read Austen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29574945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: In which Rukh terrorizes Pellaeon, Pellaeon suffers the most humiliating event of his life, and Thrawn......Thrawn discovers a new kink.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Rukh/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Rukh/Gilad Pellaeon
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Abasement

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

It isn’t unusual for Pellaeon to feel the cold steel of Rukh’s knife against his throat. What’s unusual is the timing; he’s been in conference with Thrawn for nearly an hour at this point, and never before has Rukh interrupted them like this — nor sneaked up on Pellaeon in the command room, instead of in the antechamber or the passageways outside. 

It’s a surprise — but Rukh’s knife is  _ always  _ a surprise. What makes this different is the  _ confusion _ , the split-second where Pellaeon’s heart is racing and he can’t quite tell what’s going on, except that somebody is standing behind him with a knife against his jugular. He can’t hear anything but his own careful breathing; feels sweat beading on his palms; feels an alien numbness spread through his muscles before he understands what happens and gets himself under control.

“Rukh,” he snarls; by the time he’s raised his hand to bat Rukh’s knife away, the Noghri has already stepped back and sheathed it. His limbs start to tremble from reaction just a moment later, and by the time he meets Thrawn’s eyes, his cheeks are flushed.

He feels a certain dampness between his legs, doesn’t dare to look down and check. But he sees Thrawn’s eyes shift down and fixate there, his gaze intensifying, the corners of his eyes drawing up tight.

“Rukh…” says Thrawn, his voice sounding far away over the thud of Pellaeon’s heart. He turns away, barely hearing the next few words. By the time Thrawn starts his admonishment, says, “You are never to treat my men in such a way—” Pellaeon has already stalked to the door and left, not waiting to be dismissed.

* * *

Thrawn’s mouth is dry. He offers up a good approximation of anger; his voice is cold and hard, and doesn’t betray how distracted he is as he watches Pellaeon go. He keeps up the scolding only until the door slides shut behind Pellaeon; then, with an abruptness that throws Rukh off-balance, he falls silent, turns back to his work.

His mind circles back to the shifting of Pellaeon’s throat as he swallowed; the way his face paled before it flushed; the subtle relaxation of muscles before he’d come back to himself; the dark streak of urine that had appeared over his right thigh. 

Adrenaline; fight-or-flight. Thrawn was intimately familiar with the process, had witnessed and experienced it a thousand times since he was a cadet.

But still, he finds himself replaying it all. The bob of Pellaeon’s throat; the quick, almost unnoticeable loss of control; the denting of Pellaeon’s skin where the knife point threatened to break through. 

He can sense Rukh watching him; he shifts his head the other direction, covers his mouth, removing any chance Rukh might have to read his face. It matters very little in the end; Thrawn can’t disguise his scent, and he’s long since come to terms with it; there’s no keeping a secret from Rukh. He makes a show of studying the artwork before him, and on some level he  _ is  _ studying it — the back of his mind cataloging color patterns, brushstrokes, symbolic imagery — but his fore-thoughts, where ideas coagulate and concepts take solid shape, is a million klicks away.

He makes no attempt to hide what he’s doing when he reaches down and adjusts himself through his pants, the pressure of his palm against his half-hard cock providing a spark of friction that cascades all too neatly with the memory of Pellaeon’s face. 

He imagines the cold brush of steel against his own throat — the surge of excitement, the rush of energy that comes with any form of danger. It’s happened to him so many times he’s never bothered to count, but every time, his pulse quickens, his vision clears, his mental clarity sharpens and intensifies until everything around him seems slow, like his enemies are deliberately telegraphing every move — it’s a feeling he experienced early on as a child, a feeling he permanently associates with falling through ice and being enveloped by water — numbing his fingers, burning his lungs. 

“Master…” Rukh says, his voice low, and that’s when Thrawn hears his own shallow breathing, realizes he’s still palming himself through his pants. There’s no sense of pleasure yet; just the low-level heat of friction and need. 

He beckons Rukh the way he always does, with a subtle tilt of the head; at the same time, with measured patience, he folds his hands in front of his chin, making no effort to hide his arousal, but not giving into it, either. 

Rukh sinks to his knees, unbidden, at the foot of Thrawn’s chair. He looks up questioningly, expectantly, hands flat on his thighs. 

“No,” Thrawn says. “On your feet.”

He doesn’t shift position as Rukh rises again, doesn’t lean back in his chair or make room for the Noghri in any way. He can feel the heat of Rukh’s hip against his leg, both of them closer than they normally stand when there’s anyone else here to see.

Thrawn extends one hand, palm up. He watches Rukh’s eyes shift down to it, then down farther, to the erection half-hidden beneath his tunic. Rukh’s tongue darts out, revealing needle-sharp teeth as he licks his lips.

“Your knife,” Thrawn says. Then, because he can see the hesitation in Rukh’s eyes even as he rushes to comply, “You’ll have it back in a moment. I only wish to inspect it.”

There’s a flash of relief, and then Rukh’s knife is in Thrawn’s hand. He shifts his grip to the handle, runs the edge of the blade along his index finger first, then increases the pressure down the planes of his palm. A sharp line of pain follows the blade, but only once he’s reached the heel of his palm does the first bead of blood start to show.

Rukh keeps his blades needle-sharp; this one is no exception. To hold the blade against Pellaeon’s throat like he did, denting the skin but not breaking it, shows an almost unfathomable mastery of fine-muscle coordination and the art of knife-handling. Thrawn flips the dagger in his hand and proffers it, handle-first, to Rukh. 

“Hold it to my throat,” he says, his voice level, “like you did to Captain Pellaeon.”

He watches Rukh’s throat bob as he swallows, holds still until the knife is taken from him, then folds his hands over his knee. His eyes slide closed as Rukh walks around him, out of sight. He’s hyper-conscious of his breathing -- it seems shallow, measured, almost strained -- and hears his heartbeat thudding all too quickly in his ears.

But when he feels the knife point pressing against his throat, there’s no spark of panic. He tilts his head back, makes himself vulnerable, feels Rukh shift his grip as a result.

Nothing.

No surge of adrenaline; no life-threatening fear; no excitement. He runs the edge of his thumb down his cock, triples the pressure when he reaches the head; hears Rukh’s breath huff into his ear almost noiselessly.

“Don’t be afraid to draw blood,” Thrawn murmurs.

Rukh hesitates; he presses harder, just slightly. The skin breaks; a bead of blood wells up, trickles down Thrawn’s neck beneath his collar.

Nothing.

With a gentle hand, Thrawn pushes the knife away. He turns back to his artwork, and this time, his concentration is genuine. He lets his arousal fade, unwilling to pursue it without total satisfaction.

“Some other time, Rukh,” he says, waving the Noghri off. “Surprise me.”

* * *

It’s all too easy to look Pellaeon in the eye the next day. He sees embarrassment there, hesitation; he watches Pellaeon search his face, half-hoping to find some evidence that Thrawn doesn’t remember or didn’t see. Whatever Pellaeon finds, it doesn’t comfort him; he looks away again, this time with heat burning in his cheeks. 

Thrawn gives him a knowing look, takes care to hide his amusement beneath a professional mask. Inside his head, he can see the moment Rukh held his knife to Pellaeon’s throat playing on repeat; the flash of confused fear; the brief, helpless stream of urine soaking through his pants. It would embarrass Pellaeon far less, he thinks, if he knew how Thrawn had replayed that moment in his mind the night before, unable to decide whether he wanted to watch the interplay of emotion over Pellaeon’s face or imagine the knife against his own throat instead. 

Half-turning, Thrawn sees Rukh stationed at the entrance to the bridge. His hands are clasped behind his back, his face impassive. He meets Thrawn’s eyes. 

Rukh remembers his orders. But he won’t do it here; he’ll want it to be private, cares more about that sort of thing than Thrawn does. In his command room, in his quarters — in a passageway, perhaps, if Rukh can sense that no one else will join them. 

He imagines what it might feel like to be interrupted in the middle of a holo-call — the tip of a knife pressing down against the small of his back while he’s working, making him freeze — the shame and humiliation of losing control of himself, even if it’s only in front of Rukh. He imagines the point of the knife trailing over the column of his throat, making him swallow with tension, tracing over the line of his jaw.

He glances sideways, catches Pellaeon’s eye by accident and gives him a faint smile.

He’s half-hard, the outline of his cock hidden by his tunic. He turns back to the viewport and sets his mind on his work instead.

* * *

Rukh’s pulse quickens at the thought of threatening his master — truly making him vulnerable, holding the knife to his throat but not killing him, not even harming him — keeping his master safe, even from himself. It excites him in a way so intense that he barely recognizes the excitement for what it is, can’t immediately identify it as arousal. It feels like his nerves are lighting up beneath his skin, slowly crackling into flames. 

He wants to smell his master’s fear. He wants to taste his skin.

But he wants it to be genuine, so he waits: not the same day Thrawn orders him to do it, not even the same week. He waits until long past midnight, when he can smell from the other room that his master is sleeping and hear his deep, even breaths. 

There is nothing that makes Thrawn more uneasy than confusion. There is nothing that makes people confused quite so well as being woken from a deep sleep. 

Rukh creeps into the master’s quarters silently, undetected. Even when he approaches Thrawn’s bed, there is no sign that he’s been noticed. Thrawn sleeps on his stomach, his face half-buried in his arms. Sneaking in is the easy part; moving Thrawn’s arms out of the way without waking him is the difficult part. It takes Rukh more than ten minutes of slow, gentle manipulation, but in the end, he has his master’s wrists tied behind his back.

And then all he has to do is twist his fingers in Thrawn’s hair and yank his head back, pressing his knife against Thrawn’s throat.

Thrawn comes awake. His eyes snap open, his breathing stops with a quiet huff of air. There’s no expression on his face — no surprise, no fear. But for a split second, there’s confusion in his eyes, as Rukh expected, and then Thrawn seems to recognize the feeling of steel against his throat and he goes very, very steel.

No words pass between them. Thrawn’s eyes slide closed. His adrenaline, honed by years of battle, kicks into gear. 

Rukh smells the scent of fresh urine in the air.

He keeps the knife point against Thrawn’s throat and twitches the blankets back with his other hand, revealing his master’s shame. Urine has already soaked through his undershorts and is puddling beneath him, the sheets between his legs quickly turning dark and wet as his bladder drains. Rukh hears a quiet groan — an involuntary sound of humiliation — and traces his knife along the edge of Thrawn’s jaw, up to his pulse point. 

He watches the puddle of urine grow even faster, hears it pattering against the sheets when Thrawn shifts his hips. For a moment, he could smell fear, but now it’s gone, replaced by the scent of arousal, and he can no longer tell if Thrawn’s loss of control is accidental or engineered. It hardly seems to matter; whether on purpose or not, the act is so animalistic, so degrading, that he can smell humiliation throbbing beneath Thrawn’s skin right alongside his pulse. Thrawn’s cheeks are heated; he turns his face away from Rukh carefully, mindful of the knife. 

“Turn over,” Rukh growls.

He can feel Thrawn’s hesitation, the surge of tight-jawed defiance that comes when he hears his servant giving orders. But Rukh increases the pressure of the knife, runs it down Thrawn’s throat in a thin line, just hard enough to draw blood. A moment later, Thrawn shifts onto his back. His bare chest is heaving, his nipples peaked. His cock is half-hard, the wet fabric of his underwear sticking to his skin so tightly that when another trickle of piss leaks from him, Rukh can see it streaming through the fabric and leaking onto Thrawn’s thigh.

He doesn’t say anything. He trails the knife down Thrawn’s throat to the crook of his collar bones; there, he increases the pressure enough to keep Thrawn wary and docile, and while his master is frozen, Rukh climbs onto the bed and straddles his hips, his cock pressed against Thrawn’s through their clothes.

He trails the knife down Thrawn’s body, sometimes hard enough to draw blood, sometimes not, and can see Thrawn trembling with need and feel his cock throbbing at full mast beneath Rukh’s hips. Sliding the knife along Thrawn’s thigh, Rukh slices through his urine-soaked underwear and tears it away. He holds it to his nose, inhales deeply, smells mixed fear and arousal as he grinds against Thrawn.

Rukh leans forward, the knife point once more pressing against Thrawn’s jugular.

“Open your mouth,” he says.

Thrawn studies him a moment before obeying. There’s excitement in his eyes, but reluctance, too, and resentment. When he opens his mouth, he scarcely parts his lips — and he goes still again when Rukh pressed the knife blade between his teeth, letting Thrawn taste his own blood.

“Wider,” Rukh says. He feels a brief surge of wet heat against his cock where he’s pressed against Thrawn’s erection; this time, with no layer between them, the urine soaks directly into Rukh’s trousers. Thrawn opens his mouth wider, showing his teeth and tongue.

Rukh wads the shredded, piss-soaked undershorts into a ball and shoves them inside. He watches Thrawn’s eyes squeeze shut at the taste, the sudden lack of air — sees his cheeks heat with fresh humiliation. 

But he doesn’t protest. He  _ can’t _ protest.

The gag muffles every noise he makes as Rukh eases his own trousers open at the fly and spreads Thrawn’s legs. 

* * *

The message is automated, which is what irritates Pellaeon the most when his comlink wakes him at 2 a.m. It’s from Thrawn, summoning him to his quarters — not his office, Pellaeon notices with sleep-dazed confusion — but it has the signature of the Chimaera’s automated messaging system on it, so who even knows if Thrawn is still awake?

Pellaeon tries to convince himself to ignore it, but doesn’t get anywhere close to succeeding. His military training and damnable sense of responsibility has him up and dressing even as he tries to argue with himself. It’s only when he makes it down the hall to Thrawn’s room that he abruptly remembers the recent sting of humiliation — his loss of control in Thrawn’s command room — and hesitates, his cheeks warming from the memory.

They haven’t discussed it. Part of him insists Thrawn hadn’t noticed — that it was only a little stain — but he knows better. Thrawn hasn’t treated him any different since then, but that doesn’t help matters. He  _ must _ think of Pellaeon differently now, must respect him far less. He’s simply too polite to show it.

Pellaeon steels himself, his gut roiling, and walks inside.

It doesn’t take long for him to make the mental shift from officer to soldier. He senses that something is wrong instinctively the moment he steps inside. In the darkness, Pellaeon holds still, letting his eyes adjust, waiting for the prick of Rukh’s knife against his skin. But he feels nothing.

And behind the door to Thrawn’s room, he hears something — choked, muffled noises. Whimpers or groans.

Pellaeon forces himself to step forward, presses his war against the door. The noises don’t make anymore sense now that he’s closer. Heart thudding, he hits the hatch release and steps back, straining his eyes, waiting for the door to slide open.

What he sees makes his palms sweat.

Thrawn, his hands tied behind his back. Bare blue skin, slippery with sweat; damp black hair tousled from sleep, looking like someone has tangled their fingers in it and pulled. The smell of sex and urine, the gag in Thrawn’s mouth, the damp spot on the sheets beneath him.

And between his legs, there’s Rukh, his cock buried deep inside Thrawn, his hips unmoving. He’s pulled back far enough that Pellaeon can see the peculiar shape of the base of his cock — can see it shifting, twisting — corkscrewing deeper and deeper into Thrawn, whose back is arched, who struggled to breathe through his nose with the gag in his mouth. There are shallow cuts over Thrawn’s chest and abdomen, his thighs — thin scratches on his throat, where Rukh’s knife blade is pressed even now, his grip loose and nonthreatening as he loses himself in pleasure. 

Pellaeon’s hand is on his blaster, palm sweating. Thrawn’s cock is stiff, lying flat against his stomach, leaking pre-come. With a deep breath, Pellaeon let’s go of his blaster and moves forward instead, bypassing Rukh entirely, ignoring the baleful, possessive glare he gets as he walks by.

He pulls Thrawn’s head into his lap first, removes the gag a moment later. The fabric is wet through, but not just with saliva, and only when he pulls it free does he realize the gag is just Thrawn’s piss-soaked underwear. With it gone, Thrawn burrows his head into Pellaeon’s crotch as if by instinct, not seeming to notice what he’s nuzzling up against, not even trying to stifle the gasps and moans that fall from his lips as Rukh presses deeper inside him.

“I’ve got you,” Pellaeon murmurs, watching Rukh helplessly. There’s nothing he can do except wait for it to be over — wait for Rukh to pull away of his own volition so he can tend to Thrawn in the aftermath. And in the meantime, the sounds — the sight of Thrawn’s naked body, the signs of undeniable, animalistic fear — the keening noises coming from Thrawn’s mouth, the way his lips open and close in mindless pain and arousal—

It’s too much. Thrawn’s mouth is open; he doesn’t seem to notice Pellaeon’s cock filling inside his trousers. With a half-turn of his head, Thrawn rubs his cheek against it, his voice vibrating against Pellaeon’s cock as he groans again, deep in his throat. In his half-conscious scramble to get away from Rukh, he keeps pushing himself forward, his head butting against Pellaeon’s cock with just enough pressure to coax him, through gritted teeth, to full hardness.

And that’s when Thrawn moans, saliva soaking through the fabric — and closes his lips over Pellaeon’s cock with only the thin layer of his trousers between Thrawn’s mouth and Pellaeon’s skin. 

Suddenly there are no gasps, no moans. Thrawn is absolutely quiet; his eyes are closed lightly, eyelashes stark against his cheekbones in a peaceful way that makes him look almost like he’s sleeping, if he weren’t still twitching from pleasure, if his breathing weren’t so uneven— 

—if he weren’t mouthing at Pellaeon’s cock through his pants.

There’s a growl from Rukh, a whine from Thrawn. Pellaeon can see the frustration on Rukh’s face as he holds still, unable to thrust or move forward, unable to claim his prey. He must have taken Thrawn’s loss of control as a sign of obedience — of submission, Pellaeon thinks. And now there’s someone else here to take over, and there’s nothing Rukh can do.

Pellaeon glances down, watches Thrawn mouth at his cock for a moment. Gently, he twists his fingers in Thrawn’s sweat-damp hair and guides him away — just far enough to unzip his trousers and pull his cock out. The heady scent of his own arousal is almost intoxicating, mingled with the smell of pre-come and urine. He loosens his grip on Thrawn’s hair, rubs his palm apologetically over the other man’s scalp.

He makes direct, triumphant eye contact with Rukh as Thrawn takes his cock in his mouth, deep and wet and willing, hungry for more, eager to please.

And Rukh, Pellaeon notes with a surge of glee, can do nothing but watch and wait for his own release. He narrows his eyes with displeasure when Thrawn takes Pellaeon deeper, his tongue hot and firm, trailing the length of Pellaeon’s cock, licking slowly, sensually over his cockhead, dipping into his slit for a surge of electric pleasure. 

Perhaps Pellaeon will let Rukh have a taste too, when he’s done. But for now, he only smirks, one hand on the back of Thrawn’s head to guide him down farther, fucking his mouth while Rukh enters him from behind.

Right now, Pellaeon isn’t feeling very generous.


End file.
